


Baggage

by Kat Allison (katallison)



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-14
Updated: 2003-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katallison/pseuds/Kat%20Allison





	Baggage

Schilling, that FBI Agent in Charge? Was one sick, twisted fuck. That was the only conclusion Vecchio could reach, because apparently in the course of packing in the Iguana family, all their operations and honchos and goons, Schilling had somehow found time to also pack up all of Armando Langoustini's personal effects and ship them to Chicago, to the 27th, to Detective Raymond Vecchio, parcel post, COD. 

Vecchio had been out when they arrived, but when he got back they were sitting piled up next to his desk, a whole trolleyful of cardboard boxes. The two on top had been opened up, doubtless by Dewey and Huey, who were pawing through them like a pair of idiot children who couldn't keep their hands out of the cookie jar.

"The hell are you clowns up to?" Stuff was strewn all over his desk, his chair, his filing cabinet--suits, cashmere sweaters, a familiar pair of gleaming alligator shoes next to his beat-up phone.

Dewey shot him a grin. "Hey, Vecchio. Looks like Christmas came early for you, huh?" He pulled out a silk shirt, patterned in orchid and charcoal, and held it up with a whistle. "Ooh-la-la."

Frannie, perched on a nearby desk, shook her head, lips pursed. "Not your colors, bro. You're more of an autumn, which means you ought to wear--"

" _Shut up._ " He grabbed the shirt out of Dewey's hands, and gave him a shove backward for good measure. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Dewey staggered, catching himself on a filing cabinet, and glared. "Me? What the hell's _your_ problem?"

"Settle down, Vecchio, we were just--" He spun around to find Huey standing at his shoulder, holding a jewelry box flipped open. Stickpins, a dozen of them, diamond and pearl and opal, stickpins his fingers had slipped through fine silk neckties many times. Huey was still talking, but he wasn't listening, he smacked the box out of Huey's hands, Frannie gave a little yip, and then the room was silent, except for the sound of metal tinkling and skittering on the floor.

"Morons." He didn't yell; he didn't do that so much any more, he'd learned how effective it was when he just talked quiet and hard instead. "I'm surrounded by fucking brainless imbeciles." It would've been more effective, of course, if he could keep his voice from shaking. "This shit? Belonged to a guy who's dead. You show some respect, got it?"

They said nothing, staring at him, and after a moment Frannie slid off the desk and crouched, gathering up the glittering jewelry from the floor. 

"Detective. Can I see you in here?" It was Welsh's voice, from behind him, and he waved it off without turning around. 

"Pack all this stuff back up. _Nicely._ And get it the hell out of here. You understand me?" He was suddenly aware that he was still clutching the silk shirt in his hand, and he flung it violently towards Huey, who caught it and began folding it up, without a word.

"Hey, Ray? Take it easy, OK?" Frannie was looking up at him from the floor, and she was talking to him in that tone of voice he didn't hear often anymore, that she didn't use with anyone else, the one that went way back to those nights when Pop had had a few and she'd sneak into his bedroom with an ice bag for his split lip. 

But that had all been a long, long time ago. "I'm fine," he told her, casually. "I'm aces." She stared up at him, uneasy, clutching Armando's gems in her hands. The voice whispered to him _You could get those reset, you know. Earrings, maybe a pendant or two ... they'd look good on her. She's a nice-looking woman, your sister._ He shook it off, bent to pick up the velvet box and handed it to her. "Put those away, OK? And get 'em out of here."

"Uh--so, what do you want us to do with it, Ray?" Huey settled the shirt in an open box, smoothing it.

" _I_ don't care. Give it to Goodwill. Ship it to the Little Sisters of the fucking Poor." He started toward Welsh, who was standing in the doorway of his office, arms crossed.

But he stopped again at the sound of Dewey's voice behind him. "I dunno, Vecchio." He turned, slowly. Dewey was giving him a look, setting his shoulders, angling his chin. "This is nice stuff here, seems like a shame to hand it out to a bunch of derelicts." There was a sneer in his voice, and he reached over, picked up a fawn linen sportcoat, held it against his own body, assessingly. "Sharp. I think I could pull this off. Don't you wanna--y'know, share the wealth? With your pals?"

Four strides, and he was right up in Dewey's face, shoving the jacket aside, gripping Dewey tight by his cheap polyester necktie. "You think you could pull it off, huh? _Pal?_ " He ignored Huey's hand on his elbow, the voice in his ear, the other voice cackling in his head. "You think this stuff would fit you?"

Dewey was gasping, lips pulled back from teeth. "Tell you what I think, I think you're maybe not the _big man_ any more, Vecchio, whaddaya say to that?"

Huey was still jabbering at him, but overriding that was Welsh's voice. "Detective! In here, now!"

He let go of Dewey's tie, wiped his hand off on Dewey's shirt. Took a step back, and looked him up and down. "You know what I say? Armando Langoustini woulda had you for breakfast."

Then he turned and strode into Welsh's office, and stood unmoving as Welsh shut the door, came around his desk and settled into his chair with a sigh.

"Have a seat, Vecchio."

"Thank you, sir, I'd rather stand."

Welsh looked at him without expression. Then he reached for a slip of paper, scribbled on it, handed it over to Vecchio, who gave it a glance. _Dr. Marian Harpole,_ and a phone number. "I want you to give her a call, set up an appointment."

"Lieutenant--" He slapped the paper down on the desk. "I cleared my last physical. Passed the treadmill, passed the firearms test. I'm through with the doctors."

"She's not that kind of a doctor." 

"What're you trying to say?" He didn't move, under Welsh's level stare, but he could feel his fingers curling in tight, his nails digging into his palm.

"You got baggage, Detective. And I don't mean that stuff out there." Welsh jerked his head toward the squadroom. 

" _Baggage._ What, you a shrink all of a sudden? You gonna write a self-help book next?" It was no way to talk to the Lieu, he knew that, and he coughed, trying to get his own voice back. But Welsh didn't look fazed an inch, just kept on talking, looking at him.

"You got baggage, and you better get it unpacked and out of here. Because I'm not going to have it in my division."

 _You gonna let him talk to you like that?_ "Lieutenant, you got a problem with how I'm doing my job?" He tried to make it sound reasonable, conciliatory. "Hey, I'm clearing my cases, right? I got a clean desk out there, I'm making good arrests--"

"And I'm keeping IA off your back." Welsh leaned forward, setting his elbows on the desk. "They took Ruiz straight from the holding pen to the hospital, you know that? You're tuning your perps a little too sharp, Detective."

"He resisted, what can I tell you?" But he had to drop his eyes, focus on the front of the desk, dark scarred wood. "He was giving me shit."

He heard the creak and thump as Welsh swivelled his chair, stood. "Make the call. That's an order."

"Yeah?" There was muttering in his head, his heart was thudding, his stomach was boiling, he couldn't stop the words that pushed up and out. "You think you get to tell me what to do? You think you're the big man around here?"

Suddenly Welsh was right in front of him, staring down at him. "Yeah, Detective. In fact, that's exactly what I think." And holy shit, the man _was_ big, he'd forgotten ... inches taller than him, heavy meaty shoulders and sleeves rolled up ... _You could take him, though. He's soft. You're not soft._

He took a step back, shoved his fists in his pockets, and spent a minute breathing. Then he raised his chin and nodded. "Yeah. Gotcha. OK, Lieu."

Welsh reached back and swiped the slip of paper off the desk, stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "I'll keep it out of your file and away from the captain. None of his business. But you need to do this, Vecchio."

He nodded again, not wanting to say anything else at all, and turned for the door. He had his hand on the knob when Welsh said, "Oh, by the way--the COD on those boxes? Came to a hundred fifty-five bucks. I covered it."

"Aw, hell, sir--" He slapped his pockets. "I don't got it on me, lemme just go get my checkbook and I'll write you a--"

"Nah. Don't worry." Welsh was back in his chair, settling down behind his desk. "I figure--I'll get it back out of you at the poker table." 

_Poker, huh? I know a thing or two about poker._ He swallowed, and then shot Welsh a grin, one that he hoped looked like him. "You got it."

" _After_ you talk to Ms. Harpole."

Vecchio sketched a salute, pushed the door open, blew out a breath, and walked into the squadroom which, for once, seemed to be entirely deserted. The boxes were gone, and his desk stood bare in the fluorescent glow. 

As he walked toward it, he felt something skitter under his shoe, and he stopped to look. A glittering shard of ice, on the dingy linoleum. A diamond stickpin. He started to bend down toward it; and then he paused, straightened, and kicked it as hard as he could, into a dim dusty corner of the room.

  



End file.
